Curveball

The year I Lost MY Grip

Jordan Sonnenblick
Scholastic Press

New York

Copyright 2012 by Jordan Sonnenblick

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Curveball: The Year I Lost My Grip / by Jordan Sonnenblick.1st ed.

p. cm.
Summary: After an injury ends former star pitcher Peter Friedmans
athletic dreams, he concentrates on photography which leads him
to a girlfriend, new fame as a high school sports photographer, and
a deeper relationship with the beloved grandfather who, when
he realizes he is becoming senile, gives Pete all of his professional
camera gear.
[1. PhotographyFiction. 2. GrandfathersFiction. 3. Alzheimers
diseaseFiction. 4. High schoolsFiction. 5. SchoolsFiction.
6. Family lifePennsylvaniaFiction. 7. PennsylvaniaFiction.] I.Title.
PZ7.S6984Sho 2012
[Fic]dc22
2011003768
ISBN 978-0-545-32069-6
10

12

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Printed in the U.S.A. 23

First edition, March 2012
The text was set in Gill Sans.
Book design by Elizabeth B. Parisi

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when i was
little . . .
The very first thing I can remember is this: I am
really, really mad at my mom for some reason. Im
sitting in the middle of the living room, arms crossed,
pouting. At this stage, I am a world-champion pouter.
Theres an old guymy grandfatherkneeling in
front of me, trying to cheer me up.
Come on! he says. If you give me just one
smile, I promise Ill...umm...Ill give you a mint!
I remember thinking, A mint? He thinks Im going to
give in completely, just to get a mint?
When I dont smile, or even uncross my stubby
little arms, he ups the offer. OK, what if I buy you
an ice cream?
Ice cream, huh? Now hes talking my language. But
Im still mad, so I shake my head and concentrate on
pouting harder.

Grampa leans in really close and whispers, Peter,

what if I give you a tour of my studio?
This is too good to be true. Grampa is a professional photographer, and he never lets me go into
his studio. Whenever I ask, he tells me, You dont
want to go in there. You wouldnt be allowed to
touch anything. Besides, it smells like chemicals from
the darkroom. But that only makes me want to go
in there even more. Its Grampas Special Place,
where he goes to Make Art. And Money!
Still, even at age three or whatever, I know how to
play it cool. I dont know, I say. Can I go to your
studio and get a mint? That way, I wont even smell
the menicals....
Grampa looks puzzled for a second, then laughs.
Menicals? You mean chemicals! All right, big man.
Lets see that smile!
I smile, big-time. Grampa takes my hands, walks
outside with me, and puts me in his Big Truck,
an SUV with a big yellow picture of a mountain on
the side. In classy-looking letters I cant read yet, the
words Goldberg Photo are printed right under

the back window. We drive across town to the

studio.
I have no idea how long we spent in the studio
that day, partly because Ive spent so much time
there since then that I cant be one hundred percent
sure which memories are which. But I remember
being in awe. Huge blowups of Grampas photos are
everywhere. There is a whole wall of brides: My
grampa gets to look at a lot of beautiful ladies.
Another wall is just for landscapes: The sun rising
over the Alps. A pond with mist hanging over it. A
desert that seems to stretch into infinity. My grampa
gets to go to all of these places! The third wall is the
best of all, even though its kind of scary, too.
Everywhere I look, theres something shocking:
Soldiers, with real guns! An angry tiger, looking right
at me! A cobra, raised up to strike! My grampa has
looked at all of these dangerous things, with nothing
but a camera between him and them.
Clearly, Grampa is the coolest person in the world.
Well, he says, after I have gaped at every photo,
these pictures are my lifes work. Do you like them?

I nod really hard. Grampa grins and asks, Do you

have any questions?
I look at the pictures some more. I have been
wondering something the whole time, trying to
imagine my grampa looking through his camera lens
and pushing the button to take each of the pictures,
but I am having trouble expressing it as a question.
Fortunately, Grampa is amazing at waiting. Eventually,
I blurt, How do you know?
How do I know what?
How do you know the picture is going to be
so good? Right when you push the button. How do
you know?
He laughs again. Well, first of all, sometimes I take
bad pictures, too. Only I dont blow them up and
frame them for everybody to see. But...when a shot
is going to be really, really good, you can just tell.
How? How, Grampa? I want to know, because I
want to take pictures exactly like these someday.
Grampa looks thoughtful for a while, not saying anything. Then he bends his knees so we are eye to eye,
puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, I dont know,
pal. Sometimes, you just know it when you see it.

snap I

The first picture is a wide-angle shot, taken through the

chain-link fence of the backstop behind home plate.
Theres a boy standing on a pitchers mound in full uniform: green and gold. His cap is pulled low over his eyes,
and his unruly black hair sticks out below the brim in all
directions. He leans in toward home plate, his throwing
arm dangling loose at his side. He must be looking in to
get his sign from the catcher.
The second picture is zoomed in a lot closer, a fullbody shot of the pitcher alone. Hes standing sideways
now, but his head is turned toward the plate, and you
can tell he is about a thousandth of a second away from
going into his windup. Maybe because hes fully upright,
or maybe because of the tighter shot, you can just make
out his eyes in this one. The look on his face is intense,
like he is trying to stare a laser line right through the batter, the catcher, the umpire, even the photographer. The
pitcher might be concentrating really, really hard. Or he
might be in a whole lot of pain. Its hard to tell.

The next several photos are taken all in a row, click,

click-click. Each is zoomed in more tightly than the one
before it. The pitcher is in his windup, one arm cocked
behind his head, his glove hand swinging down, across his
body, toward the catcher. Then the throwing arm is whipping its way forward in stop-time as his compact body is
launched forward by the thrust of his back leg against
the pitching rubber. Theres a shot that freezes the action
just as the ball leaves the pitchers hand. His arm is coming straight down, and his entire body is tumbling forward.
If you look past all of the moving limbs, you might be
able to tell that something has gone wrong. The pitchers
face is now stretched in a grimace of agony.
In the next shot, the pitcher has fallen halfway out of
the frame so that you can only see his head, his shoulders, a blur of infield, outfield, the blue sky. The
photographer adjusts in a split second, swinging the camera downward just enough to center his subject in the
frame one more time. Now the pitcher has tumbled to
his knees, and his glove hand is pressed against the
elbow of his throwing arm. Click. Theres another photo,
blurred as though the photographer is moving when the

shutter opens: the boy falling forward. You can tell his
face is going to hit the dirt at the foot of the pitchers
mound. You can tell its probably going to hurt.
The photographer is my grandfather.
The pitcher is me.

1. click
If I had known it was going to be the last baseball
game Id ever play, I would have asked my mom to
bring the video camera or something. But you never
know that kind of stuff in advance. All you can do is
play every game like its your final shot at the World
Series, and hope that for you, it isnt.
It was the summer after eighth grade. I was the
relief pitcher, trying to close out a 21 victory in
the league championship. All I needed to do was get
through one inning without giving up a run. My best
friend, AJ Moore, was catching, as usual. We were
the two best pitchers on the team. Actually, we
were the two best pitchers in the league, and the
two best catcherswhich meant that when I
pitched, he caught, and vice versa. It was a unique
situation, having two best friends pitching to each
other all the time. I mean, really unique, the kind of

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unique that gets written up in the newspaper.

The kind of unique that makes the towns high
school baseball coach come out to scout our postseason games.
The kind of unique that girls notice. AJ and I were
the golden boys of eighth grade. He actually was a
golden boy: almost six feet tall, with blond hair,
bright blue eyes, and a relaxed smoothness that
came from knowing everyone loved him. I wasnt
literally quite as golden. As in, I was a five-foot-three
Jewish kid with black hair, pale skin, and glasses. AJ
was a power-throwing righty; I was a sneaky, deceptive lefty. AJ was a natural catcher. I had to work my
butt off behind the plate, which was made harder by
the fact that I was the only lefty catcher at our level
in the whole league. Generally, coaches frown on
left-handed kids becoming catchers, so you have to
be really, really good at it if you ever want to get any
playing time at the position.
Off the field, the differences between us were just
as obvious. Where AJ was smooth, I was prickly. He
smiled, I brooded. He could laugh things off, but I

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took everything too seriously. He liked winning, but

I lived to win. When we lost, he would scowl at the
time but get over it when he left the field. I would go
home and punch my pillow for half an hour.
Fortunately, I had two things going for me that
helped my social standing: I was an athlete, and I was
AJs friend.
Anyway, the way things were supposed to go in
this game was that I would blow away the first three
batters I faced, in order, and we would win the
Lehigh Valley Knee-High Baseball League title for
the second year in a row. The high school coach
would be so impressed with AJ and me that
he would make us starting pitchers on the JV team
when we got to ninth grade. AJ had pitched six great
innings to get us this far, and now I was on the
mound. All I had to do was the usual.
I tried to ignore the stabbing ache in my left elbow.
That pain, which had been with me all season, was
my biggest secret. Nobody knew about it, and I
mean nobody. Not AJ, not any of my coaches, and
certainly not my parents. If the coaches knew, they

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might not let me pitch. And if my parents found out,

forget about it. They would absolutely freak. Mom
would rush onto the field and be all like My baby!
MY BA-A-A-BY! Then I would basically have to
move to Canada.
Ever since AJs massive growth spurt in seventh
grade had left me a whole head shorter than he was,
I had been overthrowing the ball. I knew it, but that
was the only way I was going to compete, keep getting batters out, andhopefullymake the high
school team. So I would throw fastball after fastball
until it felt like my elbow was getting mashed up in a
meat grinder, and then Id mix in a couple of curveballs, which felt even worse. On the other hand, at
this point I figured I was only nine good pitches
three strikeoutsaway from a whole winter of
rest and recovery.
Nine. Freaking. Good. Pitches.
The first batter was easy. AJ had gotten him out
twice with nothing but fastballs, so I figured he
would jump all over my first pitch. AJ signaled for a
changeup, and the guy pounded the ball straight into

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the ground. It rolled about three feet in front of the

plate. AJ pounced on the ball and whipped it to first.
One away.
Batter Number Two was no problem. AJ hadnt
shown him anything but fastballs, either. I had a feeling hed lay off the first pitch after what I had just
done to the leadoff dude, and I was right. I threw a
change right in there for a strike. I knew hed jump
on the second pitch. AJ signaled for another change,
down in the dirt. I missed my spot completely and
threw it high. Luckily, the kid swatted at the ball, and
hit a soft pop-up to third base.
The third batter stepped into the box: their first
baseman. A hard-hitting lefty who had already hit
two doubles off of AJ. I figured that was all right.
Lefties have trouble hitting left-handed pitching. All I
had to do was get one fastball by him. Then I could
throw a curveball right at his head. He would flinch,
but the ball would break down and away from him,
and hopefully end up on the inside corner of the
strike zone. Follow that with an inside changeup,
and Id be done.

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AJ put down one finger in the classic catchers sign

for a fastball. I took a deep breath, wound up, and
hurled the ball as hard as I could. Something clicked
in my elbow joint, like there were two pennies snapping past each other in there. It took every ounce of
determination I had not to grab my arm and whimper. The batter hit a screaming liner down the
left-field line, maybe three feet foul.
Wow, this kid had fast hands.
AJ put down one finger again. I shook my head:
There was no way I was going to get another fastball
past this kid. Even if my arm didnt explode in the
process, I just couldnt throw hard enough. AJ trotted out to me, put an arm around my shoulder, and
muttered, Whats going on, Peter?
Nothing. I just dont think I can get another fastball by him.
Dude, Im telling you, this kid killed my off-speed
stuff. You have to bring the fastball.
AJ, I cant.
What do you mean, you cant?
I just looked at him. Youre hurt, arent you?
he asked.

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I looked away. Its fine, I said. From the corner of

my eye, I saw the home-plate umpire stand up
straight and start heading toward the mound. It
looked like meeting time was over.
AJ sighed. All right, Pete. Curveball in?
I stared right into AJs eyes, trying to thank him
without thanking him. Curveball in. AJ trotted
back behind home plate, the ump got settled into his
crouch and pointed his finger at methe Play
ball! signaland I toed the pitching rubber. It was
time for business.
The curveball felt very nearly as bad as the fastball
had, with that same horrible bony click in my elbow.
But the batter flinched and whiffed. Then I threw
the inside changeup exactly where I wanted it.
Unfortunately, the guy didnt swing. One ball,
two strikes. And I didnt have anything left to throw
at him. AJ put down the changeup sign again, but
I knew the kid wouldnt swing at a change unless I
put it right down the middle of the plate. I shook
my head. AJ put down the fastball signwhat
choice did he have? I shrugged him off yet again.
He looked at me. I looked at him. Clearly, we had

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both done the math. There was nothing left but

the curve.
AJ jogged out to me again. This time, our coach
came out of the dugout. Coach got to me first.
Whaddaya doin, Petey? Give im the fastball. Lets
win this thing and go get some pizza. AJ started to
say something, but Coach silenced him with a glare.
I nodded. Sometimes in life, even when you know its
going to hurt, you just have to throw that fastball.
While Coach walked back to the bench, and AJ
got himself set up again, I took a little stroll to the
back of the mound. I bent over, picked up the rosin
bag, and tossed it up and down a couple of times. My
knees were a little shaky. My arm throbbed worse
than it had ever throbbed before. I took a deep
breath, dropped the bag, stepped up to the rubber,
and tried to tell myself positive thoughts: Its only one
more pitch. How bad can it be? You can be a hero or you
can be a wuss. And Peter Friedman is no wuss.
The batter stepped into the box. The ump pointed
to me. AJ got his glove down around the outside
corner of the strike zone. I went into my windup. As

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my hand turned behind my left ear, I felt another of

those strange penny clicks. I gasped, closed my eyes
for a split second, and whipped my arm forward as
hard as I could. Maybe a thousandth of a second
after the ball left my hand, my elbow locked up completely. I fell to my knees in front of the mound. As
bad as the pain had been before, this was a whole
new experience. I saw lights flashing in front of my
eyes. Dont cry, I told myself. You are on the field in the
middle of a game. You. Will. Not. Cry.
I tried to look around and figure out what had
happened with the pitch, but things were starting to
get blurry. Also, I noticed I w
asnt on my knees anymore. Somehow, I had fallen all the way forward,
and there was cool dirt against my right cheek. I
had the feeling people were talking. They might
even have been shouting. But it all kind of sounded
like underwater music or something. Then hands
were on me.
AJ said, Pete! Pete! Can you hear me?
I was afraid that if I talked, my voice would have
that crying sound to it, and everyone would know I

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was weak. But I was even more afraid someone

might try to move my elbow. Its my arm. Dont
move my arm!
Then Coach was kneeling next to me. I forgot
about the arm for a second. Did I get him? I muttered. Is it over?
You did great, Pete. Its all over. Now Im just
going to try and sit you up, all right? AJ, support his
head. Ready? One, two, three...
They rolled me up and over, and the whole world
spun like I had just gotten off the mother of all roller
coasters. Now I was on my butt in the grass in front
of the mound, facing first base. The batter was
standing on the bag. I whirled back around to face
Coach. Wait, I thought I got him, I said. Now my
voice was starting to tear up. I saw Coach gesturing
to our dugout, and noticed that the assistant coach
was on his way up the steps with a first-aid kit. My
parents and grandfather were all right there, too,
leaning against the chain-link fence, looking painfully scared.
Coach said, Pete, Im going to move your arm
around a little bit, OK? Just tell me where it hurts.

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I wanted to shout, No-o-o-o-o!! but I knew I was

about a half second away from bawling my eyes out,
and now the entire team was standing in a semicircle around me. Coach took my hand and rolled
my wrist maybe half an inch.
I heard a strangled, high-pitched scream. I wondered where it was coming from for an instant, until
I realized my mouth was wide open. Everything
started going black around the edges, and I was
slumping over again. The last thing I remember seeing was that hitter, standing on first base like he
owned it.

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